


Don't Read This

by TillyWrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 07:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14732645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TillyWrites/pseuds/TillyWrites
Summary: “What do you think you’re doing?” She hissed, heeding his instruction to keep quiet in spite of herself. Something about the dark, dankness of the passageway felt entirely too secretive to speak at a normal volume. He looked at her as if she’d grown another head.





	Don't Read This

Hermione Granger’s new duties as a Prefect were beginning to wear her down.

 

The badge had been unexpected, when it had fallen from her Hogwarts letter that summer, tumbling onto the kitchen table of her parents’ townhome in Islington, bouncing about as if were as shocked at where it had found itself as Hermione had been to see it. She wasn’t a poor student or a misbehaved one by any means – in fact, on paper, it made entirely perfect sense to bestow her with the responsibility of Prefect. Instead, Hermione had been surprised because, well, there wasn’t anyone in her House who particularly liked or respected her, and it seemed unusually cruel to give her the responsibility of policing her peers when they already didn’t like her.

 

Or, perhaps, that was exactly why the powers that be had thought her fitting for the role – she certainly wouldn’t be tempted to give her friends more lenient treatment. She would have had to have friends for that.

 

That logic lost a fair bit of weight, however, when the fact that her counterpart was Draco Malfoy – he certainly had plenty of friends, and seemed to easily overlook or ignore their wrong doings, even as Hermione insisted upon reporting their behavior to Professor Snape. He always curled his lip at her, as if she were something particularly distasteful (which, Hermione regularly reminded herself, _to him she was_ ).

 

He even refused to patrol the corridors with her, as he was meant to, instead skiving off somewhere or opting to patrol on his own. Maybe he feared her muggle blood was catching.

 

Hermione Granger, the first muggleborn student to be sorted into Slytherin in more than fifty years, scowled at the thought and forced her mind to wander some other direction as her feet took her through the school’s many corridors.

 

It wasn’t yet night time, but Hermione had finished dinner early and had decided to get a head start on her patrols. It wasn’t as though she had much else to do at the moment – hanging around the Dining Hall had not once been an enticing proposition in the four years she had previously spent at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There were far too many people; few of them friendly towards her and some of them openly hostile.

 

No, much more pleasant to walk the corridors on her own, the letter ‘P’ gleaming on her chest, almost like an excuse to go wherever she liked for no reason at all, which was precisely what she was doing.

 

The student body was tenser than usual these days, what with the events of the previous spring term. Hermione had been in her fourth year then, when Harry Potter – a famous boy in her same year – had turned up at the mouth of a massive maze, gripping tightly the corpse of fellow student Cedric Diggory, sending the school and the wizarding world beyond it spiraling into chaos.

 

Hermione wasn’t certain what she believed. She didn’t know Potter too well, but somehow she doubted that he would have made up that the Dark Lord – He Who Must Not Be Named – had returned to life before his eyes.

 

He had enough attention – he didn’t need to lie for more.

 

Besides, Hermione had never believed that he’d Confounded the Goblet of Fire himself. She’d had class with him on several occasions over their four years at Hogwarts. He wasn’t nearly that talented.

 

The Ministry disagreed, however, and the tensions between it and Potter, with Dumbledore beside him, had grown to fill the castle to the brim. From the inclusion of the Ministry worker Dolores Umbridge as their newest Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor (a horribly incompetent woman, Hermione, who was top of her year, had quickly decided) to the increased presence, generally, of Hogwarts officials within the grounds.

 

Hermione had even heard whispers that the Minister, Cornelius Fudge, had dragged Harry Potter before the Wizengamot for a simple breach of the statute of secrecy just before the start of term, threatening imprisonment. That, on its own, told her that the Minister was panicked.

 

Panicked men rarely made good leaders.

 

Lost as she had been in her thoughts, Hermione was surprised to find herself suddenly face-to-face with a statue of a one-eyed witch, as if drawn there for some reason. She blinked, shook herself a bit, and then turned to continue on.

 

As she turned, a whisper of stone sliding on stone arose behind her – was the statute moving? – causing Hermione to spin back around, wand raised at the ready. The witch was moving, but not alive as she had first feared (four years amongst wizards had taught her that just about anything was possible) – it was sliding to the side.

 

Quickly, Hermione stepped aside, hidden from view of whoever or whatever was behind the witch by the statue’s profile, watching curiously to see who would emerge.

 

He slipped out quickly, the witch moving itself back to its original position. Hermione didn’t move, standing very still, though she was no longer hidden. His back was to her – he glanced left and then right, but not behind, shouldering a suspiciously-bulging bag and running a hand through too-long ginger hair.

 

_Weasley._

 

She couldn’t be sure which one, because it was one of the twins – the older two. It wasn’t the youngest son – Ron Weasley was someone Hermione would have recognized more immediately, as he was in her year and seemed incapable of _not_ inducing chaos whenever allowed to use his wand.

 

The youngest Weasley – Ginny, the only girl, Hermione remembered with a familiar, distant pang in her heart – had died tragically in early 1993, taken captive in the school’s fabled Chamber of Secrets by some specter. What, exactly, had happened remained a closely guarded secret, though Hermione remembered that school year well, as had all muggleborn students. Someone – or something, it had turned out – had terrorized them all, petrifying several muggleborns and killing Penelope Clearwater before returning with Ginny to its lair.

 

Hermione heard whispers that the family hadn’t been the same since. She couldn’t imagine – truly could not. She was an only child. The concept of having a sibling was as foreign to her as the idea of losing one.

 

Putting the thought from her mind, Hermione cleared her throat loudly, drawing the attention of whichever Weasley it was that had just emerged from a secret passage, bag full of what Hermione anticipated was contraband of some nature. He jumped slightly, then turned to her, wand drawn.

 

Hermione brought her own wand up in surprise, caught off guard – it was rather an aggressive act, to draw his wand on her – and she hadn’t even tried to confiscate whether it was he was sneaking into the castle yet!

 

She knew a thing or two about protecting herself though, and didn’t doubt her capacity in a duel against any other student – even a seventh year.

 

They locked eyes, Hermione’s expression dangerous, warning, daring him to try whatever it was he had raised his wand with the intention of doing, brown eyes silently promising that he would regret it. He seemed, already, to regret it, however, as he raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender, wand held against his palm by his thumb and away from her. Slowly, Hermione lowered her own wand.

 

“Sorry Granger, didn’t realize it was you.” He had an easy way of smiling – lopsided, as if keeping things even would have been a touch too much effort, “A cough like that, a bloke thinks he’s got Umbridge at his back.”

 

Hermione didn’t think she wanted to know why he thought it would be any more appropriate to draw his wand on a Hogwarts professor – even one as truly repulsive as Umbridge – and instead raised an eyebrow at him, eyes darting to the back that he had swung around to his back when he’d turned, as if to hide it from her gaze, “What have you got there Weasley? Books, I’m sure?” She said the last bit skeptically. Books were the last thing she expected him to be sneaking into the castle.

 

He raised both his eyebrows, as if surprised with himself, “Well, yes, partially.”

 

As Hermione opened her mouth to demand he hand the bag over, several voices carried themselves around the corner – familiar voices. She grit her teeth.

 

“Malfoy.” She said, wishing he’d just wandered some other direction. She recognized Pansy Parkinson as his companion – she’d had enough years listening to the two of them to know their voices easily. The Weasley before her grimaced slightly.

 

“Friends of yours?” He asked, as if probing. Hermione sneered.

 

“Hardly.”

 

“Perfect. Look alive, Granger.”

 

Several things happened at once. Something dropped from his pocket and onto the ground, immediately beginning to sputter and emit a dark, thick smoke just as Draco and Pansy turned the corner. Hermione shielded her eyes and coughed, giving a gasp as someone – Weasley, she supposed – grabbed ahold of her upper arm, said something softly, then pulled her bodily after him.

 

Suddenly in total darkness, Hermione raised her wand once more, uttering a soft _lumos_ and staring around her at what she imagined must be whatever secret room existed behind the one-eyed witch.

 

Really, it was more of a corridor than a room, with a dirt floor and short, sloped ceiling. Hermione was not a particularly tall girl, and the top of her head very nearly brushed the top of the passageway. As she turned her alighted wand from where the corridor sloped away, curving into darkness, she saw that Weasley was hunched over – he couldn’t stand up straight at all.

 

As her wandlight fell on him, he held a finger to his lips, ear pressed against the backside of the one-eyed witch. Hermione scowled at him. _How dare he?_

“What do you think you’re doing?” She hissed, heeding his instruction to keep quiet in spite of herself. Something about the dark, dankness of the passageway felt entirely too secretive to speak at a normal volume. He looked at her as if she’d grown another head.

 

“Saving you.” He said, entirely serious, “Or is Malfoy _actually_ a friend of yours and you were only lying to me?” Hermione scoffed and he grinned that lopsided grin again.

 

“The way I see it,” He continued, “You’ve the benefit of not having to talk to your pal out there, and seeing as I was kind enough to gift you that, you ought to, well, look the other way regarding any sneaking about you may or may not have seen just a few moments previous.” He wriggled his eyebrows in a way that might have been suggestive in another context.

 

Hermione gave him her very best no-nonsense sort of look and he only laughed at her a bit more.

 

“Come on Granger, live a little. I haven’t anything dangerous – here, I’ll show you.”

 

By the light of her wand he crouched on the floor of their little cavern and upended his bag, spilling out an assortment of candies, undoubtedly from Honeydukes, some packages wrapped in brown paper that Hermione suspected were not as ‘not dangerous’ as he wanted her to believe and, as he had said earlier, a few books – all on dueling and different defensive spells. Hermione recognized the titles from her own collection, which was rather extensive.

 

“See, just a little extracurricular learning. Innocent enough.” He spread his hands, performing innocence very well. Hermione knelt to pick up a chocolate, holding it between her fingers. She’d thought it was Honeydukes at first – most of the others were, answering the unspoken question of where the passageway emptied out (into Hogsmeade somewhere) – but it wasn’t. The wrapping was marked by three crude W’s instead. She glanced at him, an eyebrow raised. He looked back at her, looking very much caught, and also slightly impressed. Hermione moved as if to eat the chocolate. A freckled hand shot out to grip her wrist, stopping her.

 

“Not dangerous?” She asked sarcastically, letting the bit of chocolate drop back to the ground.

 

“Probably not, by why risk it?” He asked, scooping what he’d spilled upon the ground back into his bag. Hermione picked up one of the books, feeling a touch uneasy.

 

“These are all books on practical magic – all dueling spells, for the most part.” She turned the one she’d chosen over in her hands. It was a familiar one; a favorite of hers. She’d learned the contents by heart under the kindly eye of Professor Remus Lupin in her third year. He’d told her at the time that he understood what it meant to feel different – bullied, alone. She hadn’t understood until some time later in the term, when an assignment given by her own head of house had lead her to the truth of Professor Lupin – that he was a werewolf.

 

Remembering his tutelage, she’d kept his secret.

 

Memory provoked by the book in her hands, Hermione almost felt inclined to keep Weasley’s secret as well, whatever it was. Almost.

 

“Professor Umbridge wouldn’t be a fan of that, I don’t think.” She added mildly, letting him snatch the book out of her hands, a scowl darkening his face.

 

Umbridge had made it all too clear that there would be no practical magic learned in her classroom. Hermione’s right hand, plenty accustomed to hours of note-taking, had taken to cramping recently from the amount of pure transcription Umbridge had instructed them to do. It was altogether a very disappointing experience. Hermione could hardly hold it against Weasley for trying to learn a little on his own.

 

She understood, however, that if Umbridge knew that she would punish him.

 

“Which is why I really think you ought to keep this entire encounter to yourself.” He cautioned, expression a little darker. Not threatening – Hermione knew threats when she saw them – but certainly serious, “It’s nothing to do with you.”

 

Hermione, who very much hated to be told that things weren’t her business, raised her chin slightly in defiance, “The way I see it, Weasley, I’ve caught you, red-handed, sneaking back into the castle after an unauthorized excursion to the village, bringing contraband and unpermitted texts along with you. It has everything to do with me.”

 

“Blimey Granger, get over yourself.” He stood – as much as he could, anyway – pressing his ear back to the witch’s rump, “I’m regretting not just leaving you out there.”

 

Hermione understood why he’d pulled her in after him – he was hoping he’d convince her not to disclose the location of his secret passageway. Fleetingly, she wondered how he’d discovered it in the first place.

 

“You’re not, because you know if you had there’d be, at the very least, Professor Snape sniffing around the one-eyed witch, trying to figure out how to get in and get after you.” Without his permission, she opened his bag back up. He watched her carefully, but didn’t stop her. She pulled another of the books out.

 

“You should start with this one. It has most of the foundational knowledge you’ll need to perform the more complex spells in the other books. It also emphasizes protective spells and wards, which you’ll need desperately if you plan on practicing magic of this sort in the Gryffindor common room, which I assume you are?” She looked up, eyebrow raised. He narrowed his eyes but didn’t speak. Hermione shrugged, replacing the book where she had found it, “Just a word to the wise.” She jerked her head towards the statue, “Think they’ve gone yet? I’m feeling a little…claustrophobic.” She studied his face, “And I assume you’re not intending to seal me up in here just to die.”

 

His face hardened suddenly, and Hermione wished she could swallow her tongue. What a foolish, cruel thing to say to someone whose sister had died within the walls of these castles, trapped deep beneath the school, eleven years old and alone and afraid. The instinct to apologize came too late, after the silence had stretched on for too long. Internally, Hermione kicked herself.

 

 _No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t help but become more like her housemates._ They all seemed to thrive on healthy doses of sarcasm and snide remarks.

 

Weasley regarded her coolly for a moment more and then reached into his back pocket, retrieving not his wand but a folded-up, tattered bit of parchment. He unfolded it, carefully keeping Hermione from seeing anything written on it, consulted it for a moment, then nodded, “They’re off.” He glanced back up at her, “I probably should have checked before I came out the first time, yeah?”

 

In his eyes, Hermione saw something like forgiveness – an emotion she was almost entirely unfamiliar with in her time at Hogwarts. Her most direct peers were an unforgiving lot. He opened the witch back up and allowed her to exit first, closing it behind them.

 

“Promise there’s nothing in there dangerous.” She asked quietly as the one-eyed witch settled back into place. Weasley raised an eyebrow at her and nodded. Hermione sigh, brushing the dust of the passageway off of her robes and extinguishing her wand, “Alright then, I’ll keep this to myself. But if you’ve lied…” She trailed off warningly, mind on the brown-paper-wrapped packages, letting the threat hang in the air. She was rewarded with another lopsided smile.

 

“Wotcher, Granger.” Was his only response before he turned to continue on his way, wherever that happened to be. Hermione sighed, shaking her head, wishing not for the first time that she had been sorted into the house of Gryffindor – whatever it was that lot were getting up to in their common room, she sincerely believed that she would have very much liked to be a part of it.

 

The next week, at breakfast, Hermione was surprised when an unfamiliar white owl dropped a small note into her lap. She rarely got mail, other than a copy of the Daily Prophet and her weekly letters from her mother.

 

On this piece of parchment, scrawled in unfamiliar, yet endearingly horrible, handwriting was a simple note.

 

_One-eyed witch. 7 o’clock. –FW._

 

She grinned, the mystery of which of the Weasley twins she had run into solved, and glanced up across the hall to the Gryffindor table, looking for red hair but not finding it.


End file.
